Home is where the heart is
by hobgoblin123
Summary: Set about two days after Damien rescued Tarrant from hell. A simple night out meant to be a distraction from the dire things to come yields unexpected results. Rather explicit slash, but should still fall under the category 'M'.


**Home is where the heart is**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.

Credits: the lyrics are from the song 'Endless Road', written by R Phoenix and performed by Hoyt Axton and Pernell Roberts in the Bonanza episode 'Dead and gone' (1965). As it is quite old, it should be in the public domain by now. If I'm wrong and this site rises objections, I'll transfer the story to AO3. But for now, let's hope for the best...

A/N 1: 'gitarrist' isn't a spelling error. Keeping the change from our 'tea' to 'tee' in mind, I thought that the diction might have been simplified over time.

A/N 2: for the life of me, I can't remember whether Damien had one brother or two (and can't find the respective passage in the books). So I just settled for one and made up a bit of family history.

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Staring down on his almost untouched serving of sausages and mashed nupotatoes, Damien began to reconsider the wisdom of insisting that the adept left his sulking corner in Karril's temple and accompanied him to the White Stag, one of the few and far between inns in Jaggonath that offered a decent bite after regular hours. What had been meant to be a distraction from the Unnamed's deadline hovering over them like the mythical angel of death seemed to prove a complete and utter failure.

Even two nights after his their return from hell Tarrant looked like ten miles of bad road, but it was his unwonted listlessness that really gave the warrior knight some food for thought. For as long as he had known him, Gerald had never been one to indulge in fits of depression. Whenever he had been challenged, be it by the Master of Lema or the Undying Prince, he had ruthlessly fought back until he had put the fear of God into his enemies, using everything he had and then some. The man sitting across him, staring bleakly into the distance without paying any attention whatsoever to his surroundings, seemed to be made of an altogether different stuff.

Whatever had been left of his appetite gone, he pushed his plate away and let his gaze wander around the public parlour. In spite of the late hour, it was still packed, probably due to the rather talented singer cum gitarist occupying the small raised stage at the far end of the room. Vryce had never been particularly interested in music. His mind on other things, he hadn't bothered to learn an instrument in his youth, and his singing voice was just good enough to lead a song during worship. Besides, he currently had more pressing matters at hand than listening to a bloke warbling about exchanging kisses under the moonlight, namely preventing humankind from falling into Calesta's greedy clutches and saving Tarrant's ungrateful ass once again. But as the musician went into a song he dimly remembered hearing in the few carefree days he had had with Ciani what felt like an eternity ago, the lyrics somehow struck a chord with him.

 _Well, maybe somewhere there's a someone waiting there with a smile_  
 _And maybe there'll be someplace I can stop and rest a while_  
 _'Cause maybe you weren't meant to be just a rolling stone_  
 _And there's a road to travel on that leads you back to home._

The warrior knight stifled a sigh. Up to a few months ago, he hadn't really minded gallivanting all over the world. Restless and adventurous by nature, he had even enjoyed seeing strange places and meeting new challenges, as least as long as it didn't involve hurtling from one mortal peril into the next, but lately he was starting to ask himself whether there wasn't more to life than spreading the word of God and battling demons.

Unfortunately, he had no home he could return to in case he managed to survive their showdown with a sadistic, power-crazed Iezu against all odds. His real father he had never met, didn't even know the faithless bastard's name. His mother, on the other hand, had died of consumption shortly after he had entered the seminary in Ganji-on-the-Cliffs, and the contact to his pagan older brother was sporadic at the very best. After being absent from the western continent for more than two years now, he didn't even know if Jon was still alive.

As for his love life, usually a prerequisite for founding a family, it was virtually non-existent. Back then, he had believed that Cee might have been the one, that he could have contemplated putting down roots with her at his side, but the notion had turned out to be no more than the pipe dream of an ageing man. It had been good as long as it had lasted, though, and albeit she had abandoned him for a few tribes of rakh at the very first opportunity, he still missed the Ciani of his early days in Jaggonath sometimes, in particular her playful banter, easygoing manner and passion in bed. However, he harboured serious doubts by now that mutual sexual attraction would have managed to outweigh their vast differences in the long run. As much as he might wish otherwise, continuing his wanderings seemed to be his fate until death would finally catch up with him sooner or later. Considering that they were planning to battle a cunning, utterly ruthless master of illusion, the further was much more likely than the latter.

Be that as it may, the ditty seemed to be quite popular. As the fellow on stage intoned the second verse, a lot of the punters fell in, their throats obviously well lubricated by a copious amount of ale or stronger spirits. In itself, it was nothing to goggle at. After all, Damien himself had participated in more than just one pub sing-along in his younger days despite his somewhat wanting singing skills. But when a clear, so very familiar light tenor effortlessly rose above all the other voices, picking up the melody and singing in harmony, he almost dropped the fork he'd still been clutching in his left hand.

 _Oh, but I'll keep travelling on, keep a-looking at the dawn_  
 _Till I can lay this lonesome body down_  
 _And when that day has come, I never more will roam_  
 _And every road I see will lead me home._

The priest blinked. Come to think of it, he wasn't honestly surprised that Tarrant turned out to be a good singer. After all, he still had to see the day the man didn't excel at everything he touched, whether it was breeding the only true horses on Erna, creating a perfectly balanced ecosystem or laying the foundations for a faith that could stand the test of time, just to name a few of his outstanding achievements. But not in his wildest dreams he would have imagined the ever so proud, arrogant bastard to give a song, least of all in a public house. He wouldn't have been more baffled if the adept had performed a headstand or cartwheeled around the room all of a sudden.

Damien didn't have a clue whether his undead companion could get plastered at all. On the rare occasions he had witnessed him imbibing alcohol, the Hunter certainly hadn't shown any signs of intoxication whatsoever. In all likelihood, no substance on the mortal plane could affect a body whose digestive system hadn't been in use since the Revivalist period, and even if he was wrong, the one glass of red wine Gerald had been nursing for the last half an hour certainly couldn't have made him tipsy. Unless he had practised what the warrior knight's generation had labelled 'prepartying' in their youth, that is.

The mere idea of Tarrant knocking back some of the hard stuff in secrecy like an ordinary barfly was so utterly absurd that Vryce very nearly burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. But then the adepts eyes met his, held his, and his uncalled-for mirth deserted him in a heartbeat.

The molten pools of silver he had often secretly admired were bottomless wells of sorrow, windows to a wasteland where terror and despair were reigning supreme. Gazing into them, he could almost feel the time ticking away. Twenty-nine measly days until Gerald's last respite would run out. Then, just like the bloke on stage had so fittingly sung, he never more would roam, but for him there wouldn't be a road leading him home, a safe haven where he could lay his lonesome body down. He would die for good, plain and simple, and go straight back to a hell created according to his own imagination, doomed to eternal torture at the hands of entities merciless and cruel beyond mortal reckoning.

And what then? What would become of Damien Kilcannon Vryce after the Hunter's demise, not of the devout priest of the One God but the fallible human man? Would he make his peace with the Church he had been serving for so many years now, go back to Ganji-on-the-Cliffs and try to explain his actions to Her Holiness? Repent his sin of allying with evil incarnate and pick up his old life as if nothing had happened? Somehow he doubted it, doubted it very much.

Gerald's demonic side, the undead monstrosity hunting innocent women to death in his Forest stronghold, finding sadistic pleasure in their suffering, was still anathema to him and would always be. But seeing him in Karril's storage cellar, so pale and fragile in the overdecorated velvet robe his old friend had clad him in, so very _human_ in his weakness, had completed a development no one could have foreseen at the beginning of their acquaintance, least of all he himself.

The surge of feelings breaking free from the bonds of denial at long last had scared him so much that he had resorted to dredging up anger, even loathing, but the God of Pleasure had read him like an open book. "I'll leave you two alone, to talk about... whatever," (CoS, page 240 ) he had said, a strange expression in his dark eyes. Naturally, he had closed his mind to the hidden meaning behind Karril's seemingly innocuous words. What the hell was there to discuss? He had saved the Hunter because he needed him to bring down Calesta. Period. His visceral horror about facing a future without Gerald to annoy the blazes out of him every other minute, his pity and burning wish to redeem the man no matter the cost to himself hadn't played a part in his decision to follow him to hell and barter for his freedom with the Unnamed, risking his own life in the process, let et alone his salvation.

Or so he had told himself, but his heart and soul had known better. When Tarrant had come close to giving himself up for the first time since they had met in the dae in Briand, he had reminded him that the future of humankind on Erna was much more important than their fate. "Even yours" (CoS, p. 246) had been his exact words, implicating that he valued the adept's well-being more than his own in spite of pretending that he couldn't care less whether his brother-in-arms made it beyond the last day of his reprieve. God grant that the man had been too distressed to notice his fatal slip of the tongue...

An explosion of thunderous applause brought him back to the here and now. The Hunter was still watching him, his finely-chiselled features half hidden in the shadows. Registering the aura of absolute despair hanging over him like a storm cloud, something inside Vryce gave way. As if on its own account his sword hand rose to meet slender fingers that were once again examining the disfiguring scar running from Tarrant's delicate jawline right up to the corner of his left eye. "Don't let the Unnamed's farewell gift wear you down, Gerald," he said quietly. "Looks aren't everything, you know, and considering that your tormentor isn't known for his leniency, it could have been worse. I'm going to regret saying this, but you're still one hell of a beautiful bastard. The vulking thing gives you a certain roguish appeal that I, for my part, prefer to boring perfection."

The Neocount's disbelieving snort prompted an entirely instinctive action that shocked even Damien himself. He hadn't planned anything of the sort, hadn't even consciously thought of it. But somehow, what had started as a comforting touch among brothers-in-arms moved into utterly unknown territory as the tip of his index finger left his resting place on the back of Tarrant's hand and traced a gentle line down his cheek in a manner that was anything but brotherly.

Gerald winced and drew in a sharp breath, but astonishingly enough, he neither slapped his hand away nor countered his advance with one of his feared acerbic remarks. For a few seconds the world seemed to stand still, and Vryce held his breath. But then the Hunter rose in a fluent, utterly inhuman motion eerily reminiscent of the uncurling of a snake and threw a small but quite heavy purse on the alteroak table. "This should cover our bill," he said, his usually so composed voice strangely breathless. "And now let's go. There's some urgent business I'd like to attend to tonight.

To the end of his days the warrior knight wouldn't remember much about their march to his rented room. Only short impressions made it through the fog of confusion, excitement and, most prominently, nervousness clouding his mind: the gentle night breeze on his burning face, a high-pitched laughter from one of the few women who dared to be outside after nightfall , the overpowering presence of the man walking at his side with the consummate grace and litheness of an uncat, his midnight-blue, heavily embroidered velvet cloak sweeping the ground at his feet in a rather becoming fashion.

The single pint of ale he had downed at the White Stag hadn't done much to increase his blood alcohol level, but yet Damien's fingers were so unsteady that he fumbled around with his keys like a drunk until his escort plucked them out of his hand with a low chuckle and unlocked the door for him.

Inside, it was pleasantly cool. Or would have been if his pulse hadn't been racing like mad, sending veritable heat waves throughout his entire body. Digging his nails into his palms, Vryce desperately tried to keep his vivid imagination in check. As was to be expected of a man who had mastered the art of psychological manipulation to perfection centuries ago, Tarrant hadn't deigned to elaborate on the exact nature of his 'urgent business' so far. Straightforwardly laying the cards on the table like any ordinary Tom, Dick or Harry simply wasn't his style.

Unfortunately, his chosen manner of approach positively invited misunderstandings. Maybe he had gotten it all wrong, and Gerald just wanted to discuss their strategy to bring down Calesta in more quiet surroundings. On the more unpleasant side, it was very well possible that he was planning a hunt. As far as he knew, Karril still provided the required liquid diet, donated by his followers 'for a good cause', but it was only a matter of time before the craving for human suffering became overwhelming. And for once, his mortal ally couldn't step into the breach. The God of Pleasure had strictly cautioned him against volunteering as long as they were at war, and he verily intended to heed his advice.

"Karril gave me enough blood to keep me going, so there's no need to worry about finding yourself on my menu tonight," the Hunter answered his unvoiced thoughts, obviously prowling around his mind without his consent once again. "Or at a later date save it comes down to feed or die, for that matter. But there's something else you have to offer."

There it was again, a certain huskiness in Tarrant's low voice he would have identified as a sure sign of sexual arousal in any other man. But the adept wasn't exactly the fellow next door. Having been transformed into a bloodsucking fiend nigh to a millennium ago, he wasn't even human by any stretch of the word anymore. From what Gerald had told him about his encounter with the Patriarch, the Church he had once founded regarded him as little more than a _thing_ usurping the Prophet's body, an accursed non-person with no rights whatsoever, no chance at finding forgiveness.

Witnessing the slow and sometimes painful rekindling of the last sparks of Tarrant's humanity buried deep down in his corrupted soul, his more and more frequent impulses of empathy, even compassion, the warrior knight begged to differ. But all the same, he'd rather not bet his life on a correct interpretation of the words and actions of a creature whose very thought processes had been influenced by the forces of the dark since times long gone from living memory.

And this was only half of the problem. Aboard the God's Mercy, Gerald had confided to him during one of those starry nights which seemed to go on forever that sexual congress was strictly out of bounds for him. He certainly wouldn't want to shorten his already limited life span, if it could be called thus at all, for the sake of a fling, Or would he? A mere hour ago, he would have dismissed the idea as outright absurd, but now he wasn't so sure anymore.

Tarrant raised an elegantly arched eyebrow. "You should keep in mind that the compact is broken. As I've already pointed out, I'm still what the Unnamed has made of me. I can't walk under the sun and my chosen fare hasn't changed, but I won't allow him to deny me something I've been wanting to do for a very long time now. Being a 'free agent', as you're wont to call it, has its advantages."

Damien hadn't even halfway processed the implications of this statement when the Hunter wound his fingers into the longish strands at the nape of his neck and pulled him closer until their faces were but a few inches apart. Silver eyes glittered like precious diamonds in Domina's light falling through the single window, only adding to the man's ethereal, otherworldly beauty. But it was something utterly fleshly that seemed to transfix him now, speeding up his breath and dilating his pupils until just a small ring of pale grey was visible around an ocean of black as lightless as a true night. "Don't bother to deny that you aren't altogether averse to laying with me," the adept purred, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his own heart. "But be warned, priest. Going deliberately easy on you isn't on my agenda for the night and once I've started, there will be no turning back. Hence, you'd better be absolutely sure that you want to pull this through, no matter what."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Damien quipped, valiantly ignoring the growing sense of unease twisting his insides into a tight knot. "I'm not made out of sugar and won't break in case things get a little bit rough. Besides, I've never been into vulking vanilla sex. So stop fretting and get on with it."

Something flared up in those cold, clear eyes, an ungodly red glow that would have made him reconsider the wisdom of his decision if he had still been able to think coherently. But he wasn't, and in all likelihood it would have been too late, anyway.

Air whooshed past him, and before he could do so much as blink, they landed on his bed in a tangle of limbs, naked as the day they were born. Although the idea of slowly baring creamy skin piece by piece and savouring every second of it doubtlessly had its appeal, he was grateful for the Banishing in the end. In the state his was in, dealing with the myriads of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons and silver clasps on the man's robes would have overtaxed his coordination skills for sure.

"Turn round and get down on all fours," the Hunter breathed, and he obeyed to the command without so much as a whiff of protest. At the very next moment Tarrant was behind him, entered him with one single thrust, and he forgot all about the intricacies of clothes fasteners.

With regard to a certain slipperiness, his newly minted lover had remedied the problem of lubrication - or lack thereof - by means of a Working. But being penetrated without any preparation whatsoever still hurt like hell, and he couldn't help but heaving a loud groan.

In stark contrast to his announcement that he had no intention whatsoever of making allowances for him, the adept instantly paused, gave him some time to adjust to the unaccustomed sensation of being filled to the brim until the pain had died down to a slight burn. Only then he started to move at a measured pace. The stimulation of the abundance of nerve endings in his anal canal was strangely pleasant but by no means earth-shattering, at least not straight away. But then Gerald changed the angle of his thrusts, hit something inside him that had never been touched before, and he moaned again, if for an altogether different reason.

His involuntary sound of pleasure was answered by a satisfied, somewhat condescending chuckle that would have irked him to no end if Tarrant hadn't repeated the manoeuvre, brushing the sensitive spot on the anterior wall of his rectum again and again until his breath was coming in short, ragged gasps. As he could feel the tension building in his body, he shifted his weight to his left hand and closed his right around his throbbing cock in order to find release in the only manner known to him, just to discover that his muscles from his elbow down seemed to be paralysed all at once. "What the hell are you up to?" he choked out between gritted teeth. "If you want to kill me, you can have it a lot easier."

"Kill you?" The amusement in the Hunter's voice was almost palpable. "That's not quite what I have in mind, Vryce. I grant that achieving orgasm this way can be more difficult, even impossible for some men. But you're taking to it so well that it would be a shame to fall back on the more conventional method."

"And miss the fun of keeping me on tenterhooks, I suppose. You vulking bastard. Son of a bitch. Don't you deny that you're having a field day!"

Tarrant laughed softly. "Just so. Can we go on now after we've made our positions abundantly clear, or shall we keep up the conversation until the rising dawn will bring our endeavours to a somewhat unsatisfactory end? It's up to you."

Throughout the short interlude, the adept hadn't stopped leisurely pumping his hips for a single second, but still he sounded as if he were making small talk at a bloody garden party. Damn the man in general and his aloofness and aplomb in particular!

Damien's muttered oath died on his lips as his lover sped up at long last. Losing himself in the sensations, he let go of his privates and fisted his hands into the sheet instead, much too close to the point of no return to marvel about the sudden recovery of muscle control. "Don't you dare to stop now. Fuck me. Harder," he panted without giving a damn for his dignity. "Gerald, please... holy shit, I think I'm going to... Oh GOD!"

The lustful waves radiating from his abdomen ripped a hoarse scream from his throat, but the Neocount of Merentha didn't ease up on him, continued to pound into him until he thought he couldn't take it any longer. _Oh yes, you can_ , a silken voice whispered inside his head. _I'm not finished with you yet, Vryce. The sooner you accept that I'm dictating the rules here, the better for you."_

Sharp white teeth captured a fold of flesh at his scruff very much in the manner of a tomcat holding down the female during mating, and the eerily atavistic gesture which might have scared the shit out of him under different circumstances propelled his arousal to new heights. Up to now, he had stayed unwontedly passive, but not anymore. Half out of his mind with want, he started to rock back and forth as fast as he could, meeting each and every of Tarrant's thrusts. As their bodies slammed against each other in a hard and fast rhythm as old as the distant origin of mankind, the Hunter growled deep down in his throat like the predator he truly was beneath his aristocratic veneer. His previously so controlled pelvic motions became more erratic, took on a desperate quality, and through the haze of his own pleasure Damien realized that his climax couldn't be far off. Then Gerald bit down harder, let out a strangled moan that went straight to his cock, and the world blanked out for the second time.

Quite a while later, when his breath had evened out again and he was able to open his eyes he had squeezed tightly shut in the throes of passion, he found that the man laying at his side was scrutinizing him like a fascinating test object, his delicate features unexpectedly tense. "What's wrong with you?" he blurted out, somewhat alarmed. "As you very well know, I'm not altogether well-versed in the etiquette of, well, what we've just done together. So if I've committed a blunder..."

"No blunder, Vryce. In fact, you've exceeded my expectations by far."

"What is it then? Are you thinking of the Unnamed?"

The Lord of the Forest shrugged. "It's always at the back of my mind. For understandable reasons, I'm not keen on paying him a visit again. This is about something else entirely, though. Back in the guest room, you were thinking so loudly that I couldn't help but listening. You were quarrelling with your fate, bemoaning the lack of a home. Of a family of your own. But now you seem so... happy. Of course the release of endorphins during orgasm might play a part in your change of mood, but yet..."

He trailed off, his brows drawn together in a puzzled frown, and Damien grinned inwardly. Since they had met, Tarrant had reclaimed a tiny part of his humanity, but making sense of the tangled maze which was a human heart was evidently asking too much of him. He still had a long way to go in terms of redemption, and the warrior knight could only hope that the One God in His wisdom would grant him the time to walk it down to its very end. But whatever might happen in the near future, it was good to see the old sparkle back in his companion's eyes, the insatiable hunger for knowledge that formed an integral part of his personality.

On the one hand, the Hunter's psychological recovery was reassuring, increased their chances to survive what was to come considerably, let alone that it warmed his heart to see the man whole again. On the other hand, though, finding himself at the receiving end of Tarrant's boundless curiosity was somewhat embarrassing. They had made out with each other like two dogs in heat alright, but revealing the true depth of his feelings for a creature he had once sworn to kill was an altogether different kettle of fish.

For a few seconds Damien felt sorely tempted to either make a flimsy excuse or ignore the adept's veiled question outright, but thought better of it in the end. "Listen, Gerald," he muttered. "I won't gainsay what you said about the hormonal output, damn smartass that you are. But if I'm not completely mistaken, there's another good reason for my happiness. I've never been fond of proverbs, but it seems that the old saying 'home is where the heart is' does contain a grain of truth, after all."

When lean muscles spasmed under his touch and the grey eyes widened in shocked disbelief, he feared that he had overstepped the mark. But then some of the tension bled out of the Neocount's body, and his lips curled into a languid smile that sent a shudder of lust down his spine. "It might have escaped your notice, Vryce, but you haven't ejaculated yet," Tarrant breathed, stretching his long limbs like a contented uncat. "If you feel up to it, I wouldn't mind an encore. Roles reversed this time."

Damien didn't need to be told twice. Now it was him who growled low in his throat as he rolled on top of his lover and sealed his mouth with a kiss. At first, Gerald gave the impression that he was just a hair's breadth away from averting his face, probably balking at a caress that was considered by many as more intimate than the act itself, but he didn't let himself get discouraged.

When Tarrant had screwed the living daylights out of him, there had been no tender touches or whispered endearments. Instead of making love to him in the most literal sense of the word, the man had rather staked his claim, marked him as his own. Not that he was complaining. After the initial discomfort had passed, the raw, primeval intensity of their coupling had taken him to levels of pleasure he hadn't known existed. However, now he wanted something different.

Ever so gently, he traced the cold but so very soft lips with his tongue, nibbled and teased until the adept relented with a shaky sigh and allowed him entrance. From then on, everything was surprisingly easy. Gerald fit him like a custom-made glove, so much tighter than a woman could ever be. Moving inside him was pure bliss on the physical plane, but there was more to it than that. As unlikely as it may seem, he had found the place where he belonged when he had least expected it. It was right here, at the side of a being he had come to cherish far beyond anyone or anything ever before, his priestly vocation included. What was between them didn't need any outward manifestation in form of declarations of eternal love or a shared home.

Then Tarrant gasped out his given name, dug his finger nails into his buttocks and urged him on, and he stopped thinking altogether. As the world narrowed down to the spot where they were joined, he drove into the slender body arching and writhing beneath him with utter abandon until they both screamed out their pleasure and a shower of stars exploded behind his eyes.

Spent and euphoric at the same time, Damien ran his fingers through the golden-brown waves framing Gerald's face like a halo and smoothed back a tousled strand from his forehead. As a yawn escaped him very much against his will, the Hunter shot him a mocking glance from under his long lashes. "It seems that I've worn you out," he chuckled, the corners of his mouth twitching with sardonic amusement. "After getting certain urges out of my system, I can focus on devising a plan on how to kill a Iezu at long last. But you need rest, Vryce, or you won't be of any service to me tomorrow. Sleep now. I'll wake you before dawn."

The warrior knight opened his mouth to protest, but no words came forth. Suddenly, his eyelids seemed to be weighed down with lead, and before he could count to three, he was fast asleep, his sword arm still around his lover's waist.


End file.
